


control

by amaranthine_luftmensch (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Basically Rambling, Historical References, M/M, may be ooc, mildly dark, power struggles, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/amaranthine_luftmensch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a mildly darker, seeping side of the power that nations hold-the control that they hold, both over themselves and others. Short drabbles focusing on the reality of love and manipulation in Hetalia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lust

There is a delicate control over Egypt that Turkey possesses, and he relishes it.

He knows the overflowing fountain of power beneath Gupta's feather-soft touches and gentle acquiescence, his instant submission covering all masks of cruelty. But he cannot, will not, forget the vicious, bloodthirsty nation within the other-there are some things that you refuse to let go of. He remembers watching Egypt refuse to shed a tear coldly over thousands of his people dying in wars, kohl-lined eyes completely void of remorse. He remembers seeing the desert nation sentencing thousands to execution for treason, then watching, unflinching, as they died. 

He knows that man is in there, somewhere.

Turkey could, of course, attempt to annhiliate the other, through war and bloodshed and death. He could poison Gupta's drinks and set his cities aflame.

If he oversteps his bounds by too much, Egypt will lash out on the man so wholly and completely, Sadiq isn't even sure of what will be left of him.

He isn't a fool.

Because if you look past Egypt's lovely green-gold eyes, flickering to amber underneath warm sun, you'll find hard creases at the edge of his eyes, a dialated pupils when he spots blood.

Turkey excercises that control, briefly, quietly, subtly. and believes he is, actually, taking Egypt under his control once again. He wakes up after warm nights to see Egypt smiling gently at him, dark hair uncovered.

It takes over a century for him to realize that he has been played for a fool-the ruthless killer he knows has been there all along, and he's bewitched Safiq enough so that he cannot, will not live without him. Sadiq thinks he's terrifying because he doesn't realize how much he has that power, that dominance-and he realizes that Gupta is even more terrifying because he has no remorse, no empathy. He's been a puppet all along.

He needs that intoxicating rush as Gupta groans teasingly into his ear, needs that little gasp that comes out of his lips as the desert nation rakes his nails over his golden skin, golden bracelets clinking musically against each other. He takes a breath, and looks at his trembling hands. 

The same thing had happened so, so many times-he thinks back to France and his delicate, airy wooing, the way he's absolutely glowed when Gupta dressed like him, the glimmer in his eyes when the dark-skinned man pulled France into a long, chaste kiss. He remembers how afterward, Gupta pushed the European nation away, the little smile he wore when Francis showed up lean and haggard the next World Conference.

This relationship is poison-and he's not sure he'll last longer without it.

But for now, he'll pretend everything is alright, and smile and laugh and talk, at least until he cannot, will not, should not-

_exist._


	2. gluttony

China, England knows, is beautiful.

He admires the way those glossy golden strands cling to sweat-soaked porcelain skin, rakes his gaze over smooth skin and curvy hips and a  _delectable_ figure. He tilts a regal chin up, up, and higher still, and enjoys the way the other shivers at his touch, repulsed, but too weak to run or hide or fight.

"Sweet China," He purrs, quiet and polite and understanding, "How far you have fallen."

To his credit, the dark-haired nation doesn't make a sound-he merely looks up, and England shudders in pleasure. It's sick, he knows, to take such delight in the dark orbs letting their light disappear, the pale limbs to stop trying to escape. It's twisted-but it's a twisted kind of beauty. And he, unlike France, who would rather admire from afar, will not let this escape him. The blonde stoops to the other's level, and kisses his neck gently, sweetly, softly, indulging in the brunette's stifled moan.

"You can try," England murmured, almost sympathetically. "You can try to escape, but you know, don't you? You know that if you step out of this now, you'll regret it. You'll miss the pain and pleasure and the oh-so- _numbing_ hurt-you'll miss the torturous euphoria. So you won't leave." His teeth flash white in a blinding grin as he comes close enough to let his words brush China's ear.

"You hate that you love this addiction in your veins, don't you?" He bites the lobe of China's ear. "And I hate that I find you beautiful."

And China finally,  _finally_ looks up, and murmurs something in beautiful Chinese- _demon_ -before England gets up and quietly leaves, letting the door shut closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next installment.


	3. greed

Egypt doesn't know when this started.

He vaguely remembers soft lips against his knuckles, then hands caressing his lower back. He remembers whispered promises in the throes of passion. He remembers lyrical, poetic French and the whiff of newly constructed boats on their first voyage.

But suddenly, he's wrapped in silks so fine and velvet so heavy he swoons into a faint and is caught by two slender limbs and looks up into bright blue eyes.

"Beautiful."

He's kissed and wooed and courted, but Egypt feels-

he feels-

 _empty_.

Is this normal?

Because he knows he's supposed to love, to fall for this strange, exotic man who finds him equally strange and intriguing. But he can't help but feel as if he's been played for a fool, but Egypt prays for Ra to give him blazing strength and finally realizes that he's never been loved. This is not love. This is a greed, so consuming that he can feel the other country gnawing at his roots until he convulses from pain erased by sweetly fake saccharine smiles, France viewing him as a possession-another jewel to his shining collection. So he quietly waits, feels Bastet bless him with her lithe grace, and smothers Francis with his own pillows and scarf, killing him all the ways he can think of before letting him go out to his ship, smiling gently, unassumingly at his crew, motioning at the empty bottle of wine on Francis's desk.

He watches until they disappear and wonders idly if the huge gash he had made against Francis's skin with a butcher knife and filled with hot wax will heal.

Gupta blinks lazily, then goes back inside.

It doesn't matter in the end, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on an updating roll, now.


	4. envy

Seychelles is so free, so beautiful that France wants to wrap his hands around that slender neck.

He wants to wring the life out of her as she looks back up at him with those huge brown eyes, trying to scream but failing. He wants to see that betrayal. But she has better uses. So he rings for her, makes her wear a dress he specially prepared for her, and smirks at her shame. He laughs at her heavy blush, bites the tip of her bosom, making her shriek. He frowns at her, and hits her with the wine bottle he holds in his hand. He spreads her legs apart.

Later, he wipes blood off his body offhandedly.

He orders her to clean the rug, then leaves.

Francis idles on his balcony, sipping from his rose-covered balcony. He surveys the country's beautiful seas, sunny sky, white sand. It seems...subdued.

France smiles.

He clutches the pendant slipped under his robe. It holds a watery pinkish liquid.

If he can't have her corpse, he'll have her shame, her tears, and her blood.

It's enough for now.

He leaves the wretched country the next day and dreams of red pouring through his fingers and onto his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter. I kind of have a ton of Seychelles pics on my laptop now. Whoops.


	5. pride

"South Italy," Grandpa Rome murmurs. "Lovino, Lovino, Lovino."

He turns-bemused. Is Great Rome actually noticing him? His heart leaps into his throat, and he nearly tips over in excitement. His knees shake-he has never heard Great Rome speak his name before. It was always Romano-not a person, not a country. He kneels in front of his great empire.

"Yes, great empire?" He asks. He's afraid that his voice cracked a little on the last  _e_. He got whipped for that last week, but he can't help it.

"Quote the seventh lesson I have taught you yesterday."

"Yes, sir." Romano hesitates, then begins. "Every man has a life, as short as it is, and taking a life is similar to playing the gods for fools; thus, you are forsaking the divine. Your punishment will not be for taking a condemned soul, rather one that not reached his time-therefore, you will rot in the Underworld."

" _Wrong._ " Great Rome's voice falls on him with the weight or a sharp branch, and he shakes in pain. He was so _sure_ he got that one right. "It is  _but rather_ , not  _rather_. Feliciano could do it. Not you, you idiotic child. Why were you even born? If the world wanted to present a failure, perhaps."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Rome tilts up his chin, and something gleams in his eyes. "You're almost an exact copy of her. Shorter hair, maybe, and not a girl, but it can all be arranged to fit." At that, Romano looks at him, confused. What is he talking about? The great empire looks at him.

"Come, child. I'm going to ask you to do something for me."

Lovino emerges out afterwards, but doesn't say anything. He limps to his room, and curls up to sleep.

He has his pride. He won't say anything. Rome made sure of that much, at least.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one. Hope you enjoyed. Something new should be up soon.


End file.
